


The Night Before The Morning After (Or, Alternatively, Exceptional as an Ejaculation.)

by IMakeMyselfLol



Series: These Golden Days of Old [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, First Time, Friends to Lovers, I said it was a one shot but I lied, John is a Sex God, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prequel, Sherlock is a Mess, Sorry Not Sorry, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Winter is for sharing your bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10040522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMakeMyselfLol/pseuds/IMakeMyselfLol
Summary: In which John Watson ejaculates without rhyme or reason, and Sherlock Holmes requires some clarification and a bed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lol. I'm feeling particularly uninspired at the minute (for like the past year) so when this started to come together I just went for it... not feeling up to getting to the down and dirty right now but know that, like John and Sherlock, it will be coming. Also when I refer to Leighton I'm referring to the artist Frederic Leighton, specifically with his pieces Paolo, Pavonia, Johnathan's Token to David and Daedalus and Icarus in mind. If you were wondering.

The bleak midwinter weather had done little to disparage the criminal classes, which meant plenty of choice regarding cases for Sherlock Holmes, who was all but skipping as he regaled the bewildered forces of Scotland Yard with his latest deductions that had led straight to their perpetrator. Watson watched from his perch against the wall of the alley, still catching his breath after a rather ambitious tackle that had only become necessary after Holmes had decided to give a lecture to Mr. Thompson, despite their having chased and cornered him, alone, without John's pistol. The clouds of puffed breath as he attempted to regain his strength looked ghostly in the deepening dark, and Holmes like a spectral king holding court as he orated.

 He watched as Inspector Lestrade shackled the slightly bruised man, and Holmes revelled in his deductions, coat billowing out behind him like a black sail. “The dark smudges on the victim’s neck will correspond perfectly with the soot under his nails, and a cursory questioning of the master of the brickworks would suffice to prove Mr. Thompson’s employment there at the time of the murder.” He concluded with a wave of his hand.

“Exceptional” Watson interjected “As always Holmes, truly exceptional.” He would be remiss in his duties as assistant if he did not pay the compliments that had come to define their friendship, and it would be a grievous falsehood to deny that he himself derived pleasure from the reaction his attentions received. The flush that overcame Holmes’ face at each ejaculation was very comely, and served as a reminder that despite his attestations to the contrary, the detective did indeed possess a great many emotions.

Sure enough, no sooner had the words left his lips than the detective’s distinguished cheeks transformed into their distinct shade of rose. “If the constabulary are quite finished, I believe a hearty meal is in order. These winter chills can fell a man who hasn’t received the proper sustenance.”

Lestrade nodded his agreement “It’s to Pentonville and then abed with me, Dr Watson, this business has taken enough of the night. I assume we’ll be seeing this one in the Strand?”

 “Perhaps…” Holmes, having completed his speech, was briskly walking towards the road, and Watson knew from experience that if he did not reach him on time, the hansom would be gone and he stranded. “Gentlemen.” Watson tipped his hat and hurried to catch up.

***

 

Watson was painfully aware of many things. How it felt to have a bullet tear through your flesh. Which bones, when broken, would cause a man the most acute agony. How illegal, not to mention immoral, it was to think of his friend as he did.

They had spent years together, orbiting each other in a space that had become unequivocally _theirs,_ and John was a _man_ , not blind. Who could deny that Holmes was beautiful? Statuesque, porcelain skin, and all the features of Michelangelo’s David with a mouth that looked as sinful as any John had noted on a woman. He had seen more of Holmes through the years than he had ever hoped he would be allowed to, and for an age had felt guilty at his secret admiration of Holmes’s lithe form, acerbic wit, and astonishing intellect.

For quite some time he had attempted to rein these feeling in, after all, they were completely unlawful. However, as the months morphed into years and nothing had changed, or rather, the depth of his feeling had only grown exponentially, he had realised that self-flagellation was not only ineffective, but worthless. 

Their cases had seen them travel a great many places, and meet all sorts of people of contradicting tastes and beliefs, and John had come to the conclusion that his love, be it for a woman, a man, or, more specifically for Sherlock Holmes, was something to be enjoyed rather than quashed.

So, as he sat next to Holmes in the cab, a mere inch of space between their thighs, John soaked in the waves of heat that emanated from the man at his side and contemplated this. More and more often these days he was seeing what could only be described as signs of reciprocation, of attraction, coming from Holmes. Of course, to act on this inkling would be to put his own life on the line, and in the event that he was mistaken, could mean the destruction of the incandescent friendship they had created along with the other criminal repercussions. Holmes caught his eye and smiled softly at him, that wondrous crooked smile that was always genuine and always for him.

 It was getting more difficult not to act, action was in his nature, but he could be content with just this, he could.

***

 

It had begun to snow softly by the time they reached Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson had long since gone to sleep, leaving them to raid the pantry themselves.  John lit the fire in the grate, watching out of the corner of his eye as Holmes laid tea on the table, eyes straying oh so slightly over to him as he bent in the orange glow, breathing life into the embers.

They sat together in companionable silence as they ate and drank their fill, and John was perfectly content to bid his friend goodnight, as it was later than even he was used to, when Holmes began to speak.

“Watson, I have been puzzling over it all evening and yet, the answer eludes me still.” John leaned forward in his chair, furrowing his brow in confusion.

“Puzzling over what my good fellow? Did you not just solve a case that had baffled Scotland Yard for weeks?”

Holmes rose abruptly, walking over to the fire, and staring into its depths. “It is somewhat connected to that, though it is not about Mr Thompson, he was quite dull, more's the pity.”

“Oh?” John queried, drinking in the view of Holmes, silhouetted by the flames.

Holmes swallowed. “It’s about you.”

“ _Me_?” That knocked John out of his reverie as surely as ice water. “Whatever about me?”

“Today you exclaimed exceptional, last week it was amazing, wondrous, unbelievable… why do you do that? I have tried in vain to chart each instance, trying to find some rhyme or reason. You are the only person that consistently does this, Watson, and I… I need to know _why_.” Holmes stood ramrod straight even as he stuttered, deliberately shielding his face in the flickering shadows of the flames, and John wondered if he understood why it was he was asking this question.

John strolled over, maintaining enough distance between them that Holmes could keep his expression for himself, but close enough to be heard even if he spoke at a whisper. “Well, I think all those things of you, and I’m told, by you, often enough, that I should speak my mind, so I endeavor to do so. That is _one_ reason for my exclamations.”

Almost imperceptibly, Holmes shivered. “And the other? What is the other reason?”

John steeled himself. If he wasn’t careful, there could be no denying what he said next, and though he was quite hopeful he wouldn’t have to deny it, there was always the possibility that he would. “The other… the other is that when I do it, you... blush. The colour of it is… well. It’s quite comely on you. I think.” The fire crackled, and Holmes didn’t breathe, didn’t speak. Careful not to move too suddenly, John edged forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Goodnight, then.” He said quietly into the stillness, and was about to turn and walk away when Holmes’s hand flew up and grasped his tightly.

 

Holmes held him in place as he whipped around, shock and desire written blatantly across his features. “John.” He breathed, and John couldn’t stop himself, crowding into him, running his hands across his jaw, staring up at those endless eyes, calling his name in return.

“Sherlock.”

And they were kissing, Sherlock surging against him like a dying man desperate for one more day, his mouth like lightning striking against John’s own. John wondered if he could feel his heart thundering in his chest through the barriers of their clothing, wondered if he knew just how long he had been waiting for this from some innocuous detail like the curve of his lip as they ravaged each other. Hands lingered, in hair and on necks, embracing each other tight enough to bruise just for the simple pleasure of touching from chest to thigh as they bumped against the wall of 221b.

" _John_ " Sherlock whimpered, and John could feel the word resonate across his lips as he unbuckled braces to pull Sherlock's shirt-tails loose "please..." 

John's blood was a fire, magma raging through his veins as his wandering hands reached skin, blemished with reminders of dangers they had faced, and all the more beautiful for them. With Sherlock's deft violinist's fingers traveled down the buttons of his waistcoat, quaking as they went, John knew that he would rip the sun from the very sky if Sherlock but asked, and that was the fact of the matter.  "Anything, Sherlock, anything." He kissed it into Sherlock's throat, tasting the salt-sweat and charcoal of their day, finally putting a name to that light, almost floral scent that followed Sherlock on days they had spent at home - lavender oil dripped onto his neck, and maybe other areas John would joyously explore.

Sherlock's hand found his chin, lifting until they could stare at each other, pupils singing of their mutual arousal in their eclipse of the iris. Sherlock like this was a vision. His curls just slightly sprouting into view, mouth a paradise of swelling and peony, cheeks high with colour, he was beautiful as any Leighton, and John could not help but wonder how he could have gone a day of his life unaware of the wonders, the sanctity, of this.

"T-take me to bed."  _Make me yours._  

"Oh God yes."


	2. Chapter 2

__

_Sherlock's hand found his chin, lifting until they could stare at each other, pupils singing of their mutual arousal in their eclipse of the iris. Sherlock like this was a vision. His curls just slightly sprouting into view, mouth a paradise of swelling and peony, cheeks high with colour, he was beautiful as any Leighton, and John could not help but wonder how he could have gone a day of his life unaware of the wonders, the sanctity, of this._

_"T-take me to bed." Make me yours._

_"Oh God yes."_

_\---_

John kissed him with such fervour, kissed him breathless as he maneuvered their way across the flat towards the staircase leading to his own bedroom. It wouldn't do, after all, for Mrs. Hudson to hear their exuberance, and if kissing alone reduced Sherlock to this liquid state, groaning and sighing against his lips as they met in such ecstatic harmony, John could only envisage what kind of electrified response any other attentions would receive.  

Sherlock was explosive against him, a supernova of heat that John could bathe in if he wasn't so eager to experience the vision that was Sherlock Holmes when he was nude. To take off his shirt and breeches, exposing the hard length that he could feel pressing against his stomach, would be the single most erotic act of his life. It would require, however, getting up the stairs, a feat that would demand their separation, and John could scarcely bring himself to break apart to inhale, let alone for long enough to traverse the steps. "Sherlock" John said against his lips in the desperate moments between kisses "Sherlock if we do not-- climb these stairs this-- instant it --will be impossible."

Sherlock pulled back slightly, panting for breath, and opened his eyes.  

. Curls fully loosed, his rose flush high on his cheeks, mouth kiss bitten and plump, the eclipse of his pupils in eyes that shone with wonder and joy and desire, John loved him. Loved him more than life itself. He hoped that this tender feeling was evident in his gaze, as he took Sherlock’s hand and tugged him upwards, each step a step closer to what would become their sanctuary from the paranoia of the London streets. He could see it, a future in secret, certainly, but a future where they could spend their years together without fear of being exposed in this room.

“John.” Sherlock rumbled as they stepped into the intimate light, a singular lamp burning lowly on the desk. He swallowed, and turned to face his lover, a shiver running down his spine. Here they were. One look and he was crowding Sherlock’s space, bodies meeting from chest to thigh.

“May I?” he asked softly, hands whispering down Sherlock’s quivering flanks, toying with his shirt-tails.

“ _Please.”_ Sherlock gaped, eyes locked on his hands as they began to slip buttons from their holes, devouring each newly exposed flicker of skin with all the reverence of a holy man. “You, John, you too.” He huffed as the shirt slipped from his shoulders to the floor, angel feathers.

John is much less careful with his own disrobing, tearing waistcoat and shirt and shoes until they stood, chests bared and hearts racing. With gentle hands, John reached out for Sherlock’s hand, leading it to his belt and reaching for Sherlock’s own. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded sharply and trembled as he pulled the leather from its clasp. John planted a soft kiss to his chest and began to open Sherlock’s, mouth dry as he felt his trousers hit the floorboards moments before Sherlock’s did the same and both men stepped out of them. Clothed in just their drawers there was nothing John could do but touch, eyes flicking between face and chest and the unbelievably arousing sight of Sherlock’s cock outlined in his drawers, the damp spot at the head begging for John’s mouth. Their lips met again and as they pressed together John was incredibly aware that there was but a single layer of fabric separating their erect members.

The knowledge, paired with the overwhelming sensation, sent Holmes swooning, knees buckling beneath him as John caught carried him to the bed, laying him out so he would be comfortable before shedding that final layer and appearing nude before him. Sherlock stared at him with the intensity of focus he reserved for particularly intriguing cases, mouth agape as he processed the new anatomical information he was receiving on John. “Dear God, _John_ … I…” Speechlessness from Sherlock Holmes? Any man would be flattered, and John was no exception, clambering onto the bed on his knees and watching as Sherlock removed his drawers to expose himself fully, and what a sight he was.

 

Lying splayed out across the sheets, Sherlock was acres of pale skin broken only by a thicket of dark hair and the flush that was creeping down his neck, and his cock straining towards the sky, the same alluring shade of rose as his cheeks. “You beautiful creature. Just _look_ at you… Tell me I can touch you.” He begged, crawling up Sherlock’s body until they were forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s air.

“Yes, John, _anything_ , _please_ just…” Sherlock arched up against him, pressing their bodies together entirely and sealing it with a searing kiss, their tongues dancing together as John ground down against him, revelling in the feeling of their cocks dragging against each other. Sherlock’s moans and whimpers were caught easily in his mouth, and John could not remember ever having tasted anything so sweet.

He breaks their kiss, running his hand through the curls that have come into full force as they had been together, and Sherlock locks eyes with him, and John aches, aches to his core he is so completely in love that he does not think he can look for much longer and so begin the slow exploration of skin with his lips.

Every peak and valley receives his attention in turn, the concave wonder of his suprasternal notch, the little mole on the left side of his neck, each bump of his ribs, until Sherlock is writhing and sobbing John’s name like it is the only utterance he has ever known, and that is when he touches him, sliding his hand into the wetness that has seeped from the crown. Sherlock keens, hips bucking into his hand, and John soothes him with a hand on his thigh while the other travels the length of him, hot and hard as a pistol.

Sherlock’s cock is lovely, shorter, and less thick than John’s own, it curves invitingly into his hand and stroking it feels like the most natural act he could possibly perform. He suddenly cannot fathom a world in which he did not get to be the one to bring Sherlock his pleasure, angry that something as insignificant as the law could ever mean this would be wrong, impossible. In every world, in every time that they could have lived, this, the two of them naked and tender and utterly enraptured, was inevitable.  

Sherlock quakes against him in time with each stroke, crying out when he slows to a stop, and if John loved him anymore he would burst. “Shhhh, I’ve got you.”  John kisses his intentions into the soft downy skin of his inner thighs, nuzzling into the musky warmth of his groin and feeling his own neglected length harden impossibly further at the thought of what he is about to do. This, he knew, was usually reserved for the whorehouse, but he wanted Sherlock to experience everything he could offer, and this was one of the most pleasurable phenomena he had ever known.

 

 He lets one hand wander to his own length, and wraps the other around the base of Sherlock’s cock, raising his head to hover over it, breathing hotly onto the beads of lubrication drizzling down.

Just before he sinks down, John looks up at Sherlock’s face and is floored. The man looks wrecked, head thrown back in ecstasy, chest heaving while he clutches desperately at the sheets. “If it is too much I can continue with my hand.”

“No! No, please, your mouth, John your mouth I cannot believe you would be _willing_ to do…” Words flew out of his mouth faster than a steam train and John chuckled fondly at his vehemence.

“If you put your hands in my hair, you can control to pace a bit better. I shouldn’t want to overwhelm you.” He did, a bit.

 Sherlock’s hands were a gentle pressure against his scalp, and once he felt them settle, John dipped his tongue into the salty fluid at the head before sucking the tip into the heat of his mouth. The sound that came out of Sherlock was as if he’d been punched, a shout unlike any John had heard him produce. He was inordinately grateful they had managed to make it upstairs.

He does what he knows feels good to him, lavishing attention on the fraenulum, swirling his tongue again and again, sucking what he can and stroking what he can’t in as good a rhythm as he can create while he’s half blinded by desire. Sherlock’s balls are high and taut against his body, and he is moaning John’s name so profusely that he wonders if he has time to breathe at all between each one, and John cannot help but touch himself as he watches Sherlock’s iron control keeping his hips still so he doesn’t choke while the rest of him is falling to pieces and melting surely into the mattress. He is by far the most wondrously beautiful being to walk the earth, and John knows now what he tastes like, skin and essence both. It is a heady thought to imagine that supple body astride his own, a part of him inside that remarkable man, and John redoubles his efforts, grasping Sherlock’s magnificent arse as he buries his cock in his mouth.

 

He can feel the change beginning before Sherlock thinks to warn, and pulls off reluctantly to line their cocks up again and take them both in hand. He is as desperate to see Sherlock come undone as he is to reach that climax himself, and he sets a punishing pace, grinding wetly and kissing savagely as he strokes and strokes. 

"John, John I'm going to" Sherlock stutters, his cock weeping in John's fist as he clutches John against him.

John growls against his neck, gripping them both more tightly. "Come for me, I've got you, come on, I want to see you, God you're astonishing, transcendent, absolutely exceptional, look at what you do to me, come for me Sherlock." It takes only sparse few strokes more and Sherlock's back is arching, and he is coming thick and warm against them both, his mouth wide in a cry of euphoria and John cannot help but rut animalistically against him before his climax is upon him, a bright white explosion of bliss, and Sherlock's chest is streaked with his seed. 

 

John all but collapses into Sherlock's embrace, utterly exhausted. Sherlock's smile up at him is soft as the pillows their heads rest on, and John wonders if it is too soon to simply admit the depth of his emotion. He would write verse after verse, and still not be capable of expressing just how dear Sherlock is to him, but that would have to wait. They could speak in the morning, he decides, as he watches Sherlock's eyes drooping shut, his body rolling into John's space and resting there, like they had been designed to slot together.

They would have all the time in the world.

 

 

 

 


End file.
